“I do believe you are more of a hypochondriac than I had thought,” said Farah.

Ralph said, “It’s hard not to be during a global pandemic.”

“The WHO hasn’t declared a pandemic.”

“Who?” 

“The World Health Organization.”

“They declare?”

“That’s what they said on the radio: ‘The WHO has not yet declared Coronavirus a global pandemic.’”

“Yet.”

Farah sighed, looked at Ralph, pointed the controller at the television, clicked, and the blue light of the screen lit the room. “You don’t mind?” she said. 

Every story was Coronavirus: the spread from China, the devastation in Italy, the tsunami in New York, the care homes in Washington State, the stranded cruise ship off Yokohama. Ralph would usually have been watching basketball, but the NBA had postponed the season yesterday.

It was in the dead time before the television was turned on, that his mind had reinterpreted the events of the day and he had told Farah his fears: “I was driving home this evening on Hastings.” Since retirement, he occasionally picked up a consulting contract. “Waze took me that way. I don't know what was wrong with the Lion’s Gate Bridge, but I did what the app said, and Waze said, Hastings. Anyhow, I came to a light and had to stop. You know I hate being in that neighborhood.

“And as I waited at the intersection, I saw a figure come toward me through the darkness, a terrible figure, more like a skeleton than a human. He approached the car with his hand out, looking for me to give him something, and I didn’t want to. Especially now, I don’t want any contact with those people—no offense, but they don’t have access to proper hygiene and there’s a public health crisis going on. I powered the window up and clicked the lock. Better safe than sorry. And when he heard the doors lock and saw the windows go up, he looked at me; his eyes were sunk so far back in his head in the darkness it was like they weren’t eyes at all, just empty cavities. But at the same time, I felt he was looking at me, right at me. And he brought his hand up to his neck and made a motion across it, slashing it, you know that gesture that says, ‘You’re dead.’ I was paralyzed; he was telling me I was going to die. And then the car behind honked; the light had turned green. I was so glad to get out of there.”

“Oh, Ralph,” said Farah.

“Do you think I’m imagining things?”

“Not imagining, but the idea that a street-involved-person made a gesture at you doesn’t seem like a big deal to me.”

“It felt like Death was coming for me.” 

That’s when Farah had called him a hypochondriac. 

That night, Ralph slept badly and the next morning brought more news: school closings, new rules at airports, quarantines in place for those returning from overseas, rushes at the grocery stores, people hoarding canned goods. There was talk of a provincial lockdown. 

At breakfast, Ralph said: “I think we should leave the city—go up to Gunn Lake, ride out the pandemic away from—”

“It’s not a pandemic yet,” said Farah.

“Just get away from here. It’ll be nicer than being cooped up in the house.”

“You’re worried about this disease?”

Ralph frowned. “I believe,” he said, “I saw Death yesterday, and was given a sign—a warning.”

She smiled and sipped her green smoothie. “You are getting melodramatic in your old age. I like it. It suits you.”

Planning for a two-week lockdown and the opening of the cabin involved work: laundry, groceries, packing, phone calls, pick-up prescriptions, drop the cat with Farah’s daughter. It was past noon by the time Farah backed her SUV down the driveway. Ralph turned the radio on, obsessed by the news, the inexorable crawl of the virus as it boarded flights, crossed borders, commandeered ships, and reached its invisible tentacles to unforeseen locales. There was a new vocabulary emerging: asymptomatic transmission, superspreaders, pangolins, ventilators, and wet markets. 

Farah turned the radio off: “I can’t listen to this non-stop. We’re going to the cabin to get away from it all. I’m not doing all-Corona, all the time.” 

“Yes, of course,” said Ralph. But alone with his thoughts, as he had been last night, lying awake long after the lights were out, his mind kept returning to that skeleton emerging out of the darkness. Now, imagination had embellished memory and he accepted that the homeless man had reached out and pulled on the door, trying to get inside the car. Had Ralph touched the handle when exiting his vehicle in the double garage? Could the virus live on surfaces? Was it already running rampant through the population of street people? 

“The shops were brutal,” said Farah, who, although she had turned the radio off, was stuck living in the world of the pre-pandemic. “I’ve never seen the stores so crowded. I was half an hour in the checkout line. And they didn’t have lots of things. No toilet paper. What’s with that? No flour. No yeast. A lot of people must be listening to the same radio as you. It felt like all of North Vancouver had the same thought as us.”

“Did you pack my puffers?” said Ralph. He hadn’t used the inhaler in eight months but he could feel a tickle in his throat that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“Yes, Honey. And your pills. Was the pharmacy busy?” They could see the ocean as the road came down to the coast at Horseshoe Bay, and turned northward. The sun came out from behind a mass of gray clouds; light glinted on the water in front of them. 

“It was. It wasn’t as bad as the grocery store sounds, but it was busier than usual. I tried to find a thermometer, but they were sold out.”

“We have one. I packed it.”

“Oh, good.” Ralph shifted in his seat as a wave of fatigue crashed over him; the sleepless night, the worry, the light reflected off the bay, the bustle of the morning, and the soothing motion of the big car caught up with him and his eyes felt heavy. “Do you mind if I sleep?” 

“Sleep. Rest up. We’ll have some peace up at the cabin, away from it all. I’ll be fine.”

When the car stopped in Whistler where the ski hills sparkled in the afternoon sun and the shadows crept into the valley, Ralph awoke. 

“Sorry, I startled you. We’re running low on gas.” Farah opened her door and stepped into the parking lot. “I need some water and a few other things. I’ll pay inside if you fill the tank.” He had the unpleasant jolt, the momentary disorientation, the failed grasp at a lost dream, the stale mouth, and the hot feverish feeling that often accompanies the end of a nap. But this seemed worse. Fumbling with his seatbelt, he released himself from the car and stepped into the cool mountain air; it rushed around him, enveloping him in a fresh embrace, causing him to feel clammy, as the sweat dried inside his clothing. Unscrewing the gas cap, he shivered beneath the bright sky. He felt dizzy from standing too quickly. Could he have the virus already? What was the incubation period? Fumes from the petroleum wafted up as he filled the tank; he still had his sense of smell—that was a good sign wasn’t it? In the clear atmosphere there was the disturbing waver in the air above the flowing fuel, as if reality was not as set and stable as it appeared, as if time and space could be bent and toyed with. In the back of his head lurked the forgotten memory of the dream that had been playing on the screen of his mind while he slept on the journey. He realized, watching the numbers climb on the pump, that since he had woken he had all the physical symptoms of the virus: the dizziness, the flush and chill of fever, a dry mouth, and sticky eyes. But it wasn’t the risk of infection that troubled him—since returning to consciousness, he was consumed with the restless need to return to the dream that had been happening in his head. It proved elusive: he sensed a mood, an atmosphere, a feeling, but couldn’t identify a definite image or sound. If only he could grasp a single visual from the dream, the rest would rush back complete. The pump stopped with a final clunk; he paused and topped the gas off to the nearest dollar figure. Farah looked at him through the plate glass window of the convenience store and he waved to her to signal he was done. She waved back and turned to pay at the counter. He sat in the driver’s seat, to take his turn at the wheel.

He had forgotten about his unremembered dream when they came out of the forest and passed the RVs at Seton Portage and the light from the horizon streamed into the big open valley. Sunbeams shot horizontally through the air creating the soft light of the golden hour. The road turned west by north-west and swung them into the cyclops stare of the sun before they ducked back into the sheltered valley of the winding road. And then, in shadow, beneath the brilliant dusk, triggered by the ethereal light of evening, the mystical beams crashing through the fog of forgetfulness, and the memory of the vision from his nap came to him; the recollection of the dream, shot in the same soft technicolor glow, returned complete.

In his nap, he had dreamt of arriving at the cabin at Gunn Lake, setting the parking brake, and stepping from the SUV. The sunbeams pouring down from the mountains lit a figure, sitting on the wooden bench that ran along the verandah to the front door. It was the homeless man from yesterday leaning back, his hoodie up over his head and eyes, only his rotten-toothed smile visible on his face.

“What are you doing here?” said Ralph.

“Where else would I be?”

“But you were in Vancouver yesterday.”

The figure stood up. “So I was.” The hood settled back and the empty eye sockets were revealed.

“I saw you. And you made that motion—the throat slash.” Ralph gestured, drawing a finger across his neck. “That scared me.”

The thin man began to laugh. “No, not the throat slash. The gesture I made was this,” he lifted his hand, fingers and thumb spread wide, palm moving up towards the circle of his open mouth. “I was surprised. That’s why I lifted my hand to my mouth; I was so surprised to see you on Hastings because I had an appointment with you today at Gunn Lake.”

The SUV crested a hill; it pointed directly into the sun, lying low on the horizon; the light flooded the vehicle blinding Ralph. Unable to see, his mind consumed by the implications of his dream, he panicked, jamming his foot on the brake. The tires locked and skidded, there was a squeal, and the car slid across the median into the oncoming lane. The logging truck, coming up the other side of the hill, moved slowly, but the combined speed of impact almost sheared the SUV in half, destroying the driver’s side and killing Ralph on impact. 

When the first responders arrived at the scene, they were in awe of the miracle of the woman who emerged from the passenger’s seat unscathed by the crash.

The End